


Fighting Form

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Reality, Community: lotr_sesa, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Recovery, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleeing to Lorien after the loss of Gandalf, one of the company experiences an unexpected setback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting Form

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubyelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyelf/gifts).



> A very slight AU written for [](http://rubyelf.livejournal.com/profile)[**rubyelf**](http://rubyelf.livejournal.com/) for [](http://lotr-sesa.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lotr-sesa.livejournal.com/)**lotr_sesa**. She asked for, among other things, some hurt/comfort and a little consensual bondage. Here's hoping what I've offered up is at least a tiny taste of both. Happy Holidays!

They fled from the hail of arrows as if Sauron himself nipped at their heels. Each whistling shaft whispered their deaths as it cut through the air, the orcs' aim getting ever better by the moment. Aragorn led them all towards the safety of the trees, urgent shouts pressing them onward. Dwarf and elf flanked the knot of hobbits in the middle, and Boromir brought up the rear, his great shield raised to take the brunt of the blows.

Yet even as Aragorn's boot touched the first shadow of the treeline, young Pippin stumbled, tripping over a rock, and tumbled to the ground. He cried out, startlement tinging his cry as much as pain, and it was only Boromir's shout to the rest to keep going that kept Merry moving forward.

Boromir slung the shield across his back, not stopping even as he leaned over, scooping Pippin up in his arms. Even so, the delay had cost them, and they were now precious seconds behind their companions, safe behind the shelter of trunk and leaf. For such small creatures, halflings were surprisingly solid, and so even though he tried to hasten their progress, Boromir could feel his muscles protesting, his pace slowing.

Just as he was sure they had outrun their pursuers, he felt it. A sharp, stabbing pain in his side, the telltale kiss of a lucky shot or a skilled archer. As the sensation flooded his senses, overwhelming his ability to think, he thrust Pippin into Gimli's arms and fell forward against Aragorn, letting his mind shutter out the pain and the darkness take him.

***

Boromir came to with a shout, a searing fire jerking him back to consciousness. His instincts pressed him to fight, but even as he tried to move, strong hands urged him gently back down, and a soft, familiar voice murmured soothing words.

"Lie back, Boromir. The battle is over for the moment. You can rest. We are within the White Lady's domain, and you are safe here. _We_ are safe here."

He groaned, but let the words wash over him, heeding the tenderness in their tone. Soft fur tickled his skin, and it dawned on him that he had been divested of his garments, laid to rest on a low bed. He swallowed, turning his head, and found himself utterly unsurprised to see Aragorn kneeling beside him, the tools of the healing trade set out within his reach. A wicked looking arrow -- the head roughly serrated, the shaft splintered -- rested across Aragorn's lap. Boromir frowned. It was as he had feared: an orcish arrow had found one of the few failings in his chain and leather armour, winnowing its way between joins that had weakened under the stress of long travel. "How bad is it?" He winced, frustrated at the roughness in his throat, the sudden thirst that took hold of him. "I-- Water." He lifted his arm to gesture, then gasped at the whiteness that filled his vision.

"Careful." Aragorn's hands were back on his body, gently easing his arm back down. "You were struck just beneath your arm, but the damage is not severe. A little rest, some binding and the medicine of the Elves should have you back in fighting form soon." He stroked Boromir's hair back from his forehead, then rose. "Stay still, and I shall fetch you some water. And after... sleep."

***

The days that followed crawled by for Boromir. They fell into a frustrating pattern of inertia, as he would wake to be attended to by Aragorn, then he would eat and sleep as he was bid, awake again for more fussing and food, then sleep through the night only to begin the cycle over again. From time to time the rest of the company would visit, one-on-one or in small groups, but every time, just as the hobbits were getting boisterous, or Gimli and Legolas appeared to be settling in for a good bicker, Aragorn would gently usher them away, an ever-present rebuke slipping past his lips to remind them that Boromir needed quiet and rest.

As far as he was concerned, Boromir had had his fill of quiet and rest. He longed to do more than sit, and even the increasingly more frequent turns around the bases of the giant trees housing the flets did nothing but whet his appetite for more. After all, Aragorn had determined that if the arrow had been tipped with any poison at all, it was weak and diluted, and thus there was little danger of lasting effects. Still, wound and fatigue both conspired against Boromir, tethering him to his bed by dint of shortness of breath, lingering aches and general exhaustion.

It did not do to have a warrior attended to like a child. It was not acceptable for a lord of Gondor to be gentled like a colt, not even by the hands of his so-called King. Boromir's ire rose steadily as his time as an invalid stretched, until he found himself unable to stop striking out and snapping at Aragorn's efforts.

"Enough," he growled after a week of such attentions, pushing away a proffered cup. "Can you not see I am well? The wound is all but healed, and if I am tied to this bed any longer, I will atrophy."

Aragorn's half-smile in response was maddening. "You have certainly regained the use of your tongue," he murmured, reaching behind Boromir to readjust his bedding, "but your side is not yet fully closed, and I would not risk you reopening it with anything approaching strenuous activity." He smoothed the sheets, tugging them higher, his fingers brushing lightly against Boromir's chest, making his skin tingle.

"I do not need more of your platitudes. What I _need_ is my sword back in my hand." Boromir thrust at the newly-tucked sheets, pushing them down his chest, intent on rising once and for all.

Yet a hand caught his wrist in mid-motion, the gesture gentle, but the pressure strong enough to make the silent warning clear. "You will do no such thing, not until _I_ deem you ready. I do not wish to fight you, son of Gondor." Aragorn's voice was low and soft, but there was tempered steel beneath that brooked no argument. "Not the least of which because I do not wish to do you any more injury."

Instinctively, Boromir jerked his arm, aiming to break Aragorn's grip in a show of strength. Yet he could not hide the wince that accompanied the sharp slice of pain that flashed up his side.

"You see?" Aragorn lowered Boromir's arm, pressing it gently to the bedding, holding it lightly even as he straightened the sheets for a second time with his free hand. "You would do well to endure the indignity of relaxation for a little while longer, no matter how badly it suits you."

The mocking tone was not lost on Boromir. He growled and tried once again to sit up, determined to throw off his prison of coddling and indulgence.

"Do I need to tie you down to keep you still?" The steel in Aragorn's voice was no longer simply a whisper. He reached over Boromir's body, gripped his other wrist and forced both back down. "Is that what you require?"

"What I _require_ is time to throw off the rust of rest and practise my skills. What I _require_ is a good, hard fight to stoke the fire in my belly." Boromir tugged lightly, testing Aragorn's hold.

Aragorn's fingers tightened in response. He shifted, sliding one leg slowly over Boromir's waist, settling above him as he pressed his knees against Boromir's thighs. "I do not wish to fight you. Do you understand that? But if I am pressed, I will. You will not win; not while your health is on the line. Not while you insist on bull-headedly barrelling forward, putting your ego above the great value you have to us when you are strong and well."

Boromir snorted. The Ranger had obviously lived amongst the Elves too long if he believed Men were that fragile. He raised his hips, thrusting upward in a bid to throw Aragorn off...

...And arrested his movement as he felt the unmistakable press of hardened flesh against his thigh. He blinked, eyebrows rising, and experimentally thrust upward once again.

He was not wrong. Aragorn was enjoying the struggle far more than Boromir would ever have guessed, and as he watched, Aragorn's expression slowly betrayed him. He bit his lip, eyes half-closing, and after a moment began to shamelessly grind himself against Boromir.

It was no more than a space of a heartbeat before Boromir felt his own prick begin to stir, stoking the embers of something buried deep inside. He wet his lips. Wounded or not, he was not willing to let what was seemingly on offer slip through his fingers. Neither would he make this easy for the other man. He was tired of tenderness and care, craving instead the heady rush of roughness and heat.

Low, dark laughter rumbled up from his chest. "Is that so, Ranger? Then you may indeed have to break me to prevent me from breaking myself." He leaned up, capturing Aragorn's lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

This was the fight he needed; this was the battle that would put him back in fighting form.


End file.
